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Red's Favorite Quote

I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.
Oscar Wilde

accomplishments are instantly overshadowed by his attitude.
He's arrogant and conceited and pleasing him is next to impossible. But Lucy's disturbed to find she wants to please him—in every way possible. Holden's brooding, sizzling good looks make Lucy wonder if his passion extends beyond the boardroom.

No one's ever called Patrick Holden a sweetheart. If he's anywhere in this world, it's due to his fierce determination. A blonde, sexy bombshell assistant whose body is begging for a tumble is a distraction he can certainly do without…and one he's hell bent on getting rid of. No assistant has ever lasted under the strain of his demands, but Lucy is proving to be the exception. She's intelligent, resourceful, determined — and Patrick quickly realizes the only hostile takeover he's interested in involves his Divine assistant.

This is the first time I have read a book from Red Garnier, and it won’t be the last. This author not only has a great imagination and talent, but she sure knows how to mix business with pleasure. All in all, Divine Assistant is a great book, and it explained everything beautifully; Great job.
~ Fallen Angel Reviews, 5 Angels

If I had to summarize this book in one word, it would be: Breathtaking! Simply divine!  The sex was sizzling, but what really carries this book is Ms. Garnier’s delightful writing voice. Humor woven with perfect characterization and descriptive scenes kept this reader enthralled, and I bet they will keep all readers as spellbound.

Ms. Garnier, if I could give you more than 5 enchantments, I would have.
~ Enchanting Reviews, 5 Enchantments
 

 

Stepping off the elevators into the palatial penthouse at Mr. Holden’s prestigious Columbus Towers, situated at the heart of Manhattan’s busy Columbus Circle, Lucy straightened her spine in order not to feel tiny among such overwhelming splendor. She was wearing Mr. Holden’s preferred tailored black outfit and had barely set foot on the jet-black granite floor when she was greeted formally by Holden’s butler, the gracious Mr. Pimwick, who was as impeccably formal and courteous as when she’d met him a few days ago. She still wasn’t certain whether it was his fluid bow or the fact that he addressed her as “Miss” that made the whole experience of being in Holden’s home almost surreal.

“Hello again, Mr. Pimwick,” she acknowledged with a smile.

“Allow me,” he said as he briskly proceeded to dispense her of her jacket, leaving her still quite presentable in a black pencil skirt and a soft, silk cream blouse she had recently purchased for the occasion. If anything, all Lucy wanted today was to make a good first impression.

“Thanks. I assume the rest of the staff is ready to greet Mr. Holden?”

“Your assumption is correct. We are most eager for his arrival.”

The eagerly awaited arrival of Mr. Holden took place a good hour later. Patrick Holden arrived with a burst of authority and a trail of fumbling individuals in his wake. The man hauling his suitcases seemed awfully exerted when he stepped out of the elevator, which opened directly into Holden’s foyer, and Mr. Phelps seemed to be flushed and eager for his boss’s attention. Mr. Holden, on the other hand, seemed calm and full of it as he walked into his apartment with an attitude that clearly said “you can all just kiss my ass”.

The staff, including the three maids with the preferred black uniforms and white aprons, stood ramrod stiff in soldier-like positions forming a perfect line next to Mr. Pimwick. Across the line, Lucy stared at them in puzzlement, to which Mr. Pimwick arched his eyebrows in a slight gesture that told her quite efficiently she should have formed the line along with them. But it was too late. All Lucy could do was stand as erect as a flagpole on the opposite side of the foyer and watch Mr. Holden easily walk past them without even the slightest acknowledgement of anyone present.

Mr. Holden was speaking on the phone, and while he barked ten-dollar words into the speaker, Lucy seized the opportunity to recover from her initial shock over seeing him in person.

She had seen his face in magazines before, yet she now realized the pictures had blatantly missed portraying one itsy bitsy detail—the sheer, overwhelming size of his ego. It filled the room like a shroud, fairly choking her. And to watch people scurrying to and fro to do his bidding, including Mr. Pimwick—who briskly assisted him in removing his jacket while His Royal Asshole kept talking on the phone—was quite comical.

Yet Lucy was not laughing. She was more than a little preoccupied with his extreme, overwhelming, totally unfair good looks. Tall and dark and solemn, the man had clearly just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. Narrowed eyes with sleek black eyebrows, a firm nose and a dominant square jaw—he was magnificent.

He’d been wearing a pitch-black jacket that perfectly matched the color of his hair. Judging by the tailored fit that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow hips, Lucy was certain it was designed by a world-famous label and made from a very fine material. Yet when Pimwick helped him remove it, Lucy had to admit that the body underneath was even finer.

Rolling his shirtsleeves to his elbows while he spoke on the phone, he seemed oblivious to everything else, even Lucy’s startled gaze, which was now helplessly glued to his person. Her lips curled into a smile when she saw the way he tiredly tugged at his crimson tie then briskly unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. His hands were tanned, and although big, they were sleek, his fingers long and elegant. His hair was slightly long, reaching his collar. It was dark and silky and temptingly curled at the ends, and the expression on his face was that of pained concentration as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. Some other investment-savvy genius like him, no doubt, and for a moment Lucy fervently wished she could listen to their conversation.

Ending the call with a brusque click, Holden finally turned, assessed his employees in one sweeping motion, and to Lucy’s mortification, his narrowed black eyes, the color of a starless night, settled on her—where they remained for several long, unnerving seconds.

Lucy had never before known someone with eyes that could pin a person to the spot with a mere look, like he was doing to her now, skewering her there like an onion in the middle of the foyer for everyone to see. She felt the color rise to her cheeks, partly in embarrassment and partly from the sheer pressure and intensity of his gaze.

A winged black eyebrow slightly rose in question. “Who the hell are you?”

“I—”

“She’s your new personal assistant, Mr. Holden,” Mr. Phelps quickly interjected. “The one you instructed me to hire.”

Holden pursed his lips in distaste. “Didn’t I say experienced, Mr. Phelps?”

“Yes, well…she is a bit young, but she’s smart. She holds an MBA from Stanford.”

“Jacket, Phelps?” Holden said, his eyes falling and resting uncomfortably on her breasts. To her surprise, Lucy found that she couldn’t breathe and she felt her face redden even more so with this dilemma. It seemed like an eternity before his gaze lifted to her face once again.

“I don’t like blondes,” he finally said, in a tone as passionless as the domed foyer ceiling. And as if that was that, he carried himself down the hallway, only to disappear into the first door to the left—probably the master bedroom, for Master Holden, as she assumed a jerk like him would demand to be called.

The eyes that had previously remained idle in the foyer—five pairs, including Phelps’ and Pimwick’s—suddenly landed on Lucy, and the looks in them made her so uncomfortable she wanted to flee. This was not a good way to start her new job.

Mr. Phelps let out a deep, audible breath and for the first time ever, Lucy saw a hint of a smile on his slim, pale face. “That went rather well.”

“Are you kidding me?” she hissed in a whisper, her eyes narrowed into slits. “He hates my guts already!”

© Red Garnier, August 2007
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